At 3:30 yesterday morning, I knew it would not be a great day. Intermittently, for the three hours prior, I had rocked and paced, cuddled and cajoled, retrieved milk from the kitchen (and then from the floor, where it had been launched); I comforted and coerced my irrational toddler son to just go back to sleep. So when he finally quieted down and I slid back under the covers, turning off my alarm previously set for 5:30, I knew. When my five-year-old awoke me at 7:00, my disoriented head spinning, I sighed and rushed to make breakfast and pack backpacks and hurry everyone along in their morning tasks. Five hours later, we left the napping toddler with a babysitter while Daniel and I darted around town at lunchtime, trying to pick out floors to replace the ones that had recently been torn up as part of the remediation for a leaky faucet gone wild. We returned home just in time for me to retrieve the girls from the bus stop, start homework and dinner, then race with Emerie to sign up for tae kwon do, her chosen extracurricular activity. We stayed long enough to watch little girls and boys with big voices break boards, I screeched through the Starbucks drive through for a cold-brewed pick me up, then ran into the house long enough to blend the soup on the stove, shout instructions to Daniel, and squeal into the school parking lot for kindergarten back to school night. I sat in the second to last chair available, beside my only friend in the room, and proceeded to try my darnedest not to fall asleep for the next hour. I had left the coffee in the car, and I regretted it deeply. On our way out, we talked about the difficulty of getting used to our new schedules. “I’m not used to not knowing anything about his day,” my friend said. I nodded and empathized but had to answer my phone; Daniel was calling when he should have been dropping Mirabella off at dance. “Are you almost here? You took the van and Mirabella can’t find her ballet shoes.” Daniel doesn't have car seats in his car. SHOOT. I bumped, crookedly, into the driveway several minutes later, welcomed by a scene: The dog escaping down the front steps, Daniel holding a pajama-clad Deacon on the porch, and Mirabella, streaking across the yard, wailing and in tears. The beloved ballet shoes had been included in her “Me” bag that she shared with her second grade class. We hadn’t seen them since. I looked at the clock: 6:30 on the nose, her class would be starting now. “Do you want to skip it?” I offered. “NO!” she wailed louder. So to dance class we went, breathing deeply along the way. “Why were you late, Mommy? Why did you even go to that meeting if you were so tired? Why did you take the van? Why did you let me bring my dance shoes to school? I thought my teacher packed them. Now I have to dance in no shoes.” “Mirabella,” I tried to soothe, “I can tell this hasn’t been your favorite day. It hasn’t been mine either. I’m going to be really grateful for those new mercies tomorrow, how about you?” “Yes, but still, I hate this day. I hate that the house is torn up, Mommy. Everything feels. . .different!” she shouted. I looked back at her red little face, all screwed up in frustration. I imagined her walking into her dance class late, still the new girl that no one knows, the one who is still playing catch up, and now she’s in stocking feet. I sighed. “Everything is different, honey. We didn’t plan on any of this and, honestly, I kind of hate it too. It’s going to get weirder before it gets better. We’re just starting a new season that’s different for all of us. And I don’t feel like I’m doing a very good job. But we have to give each other grace while we’re learning. I’m so sorry you’re late to class and that you don’t have shoes. But you have to take a deep breath and go in there and do your best.” I shuttled her into the door and apologized to the woman at the front desk. I unnecessarily explained what happened to her shoes. “We’ll get better at this,” I said, “we just need time.”

At 6:00 this morning (a full night’s sleep accomplished, thank goodness), I baked peanut butter banana oatmeal and packed lunches and snacks to last us all day in preparation for the asbestos abatement that took place in our kitchen today, rendering it inaccessible. At 10:30 I met with the foreman who confirmed that, indeed, our family room floor would also need to be torn up, and the new flooring cannot be installed until the kitchen cabinet is replaced, in another two weeks. I’m with Mirabella, none of this is my favorite. I’m not always handling it gracefully. Of course I’m aware of how much worse it could be (and I’m stunningly grateful that Nationwide is on our side). I think it can be useful sometimes to compare our situation to that of others, for a little jolt of perspective, but I can’t live there. Comparison isn’t a useful tool for me, whether related to my marriage or my hair, outfits or children’s behavior, circumstances or belongings. If I fare better, I risk being haughty or feeling guilty; if I fare worse, I risk ungratefulness or jealousy. We are where we are, we have what we have, and it’s okay for it to feel hard sometimes, and it’s okay to say it out loud. Being told, by another or by yourself, that you “should” be handling it better is useless. If you’re in a hard place, don't be afraid to say it. Find a friend to share your feelings with; relieve her of the duty to fix your situation. Give yourself the freedom to feel whatever you’re feeling, without judgment. The danger, for me, of not exercising this freedom, is getting stuck. I don’t want to throw a pity party,but when I let the frustration fester too long, without any outside air or perspective, it grows wild. Acknowledging difficulty does not negate having gratitude; you can recognize God's faithfulness and struggle through your situation. It’s okay to ask for the help you need. Today I needed not to be here while guys in HAZMAT suits ripped my kitchen apart. I was allowed to be here, but I just couldn’t be. So I asked my rock star neighbor if we could crash at her house for a few hours. Our kids played, we drank coffee, and I welcomed the change of scenery and perspective. And finally, it’s okay to give yourself grace while you work out the kinks. Last night, Mirabella reported: “My dance teacher said I have to wear my shoes next class.” (As if she had arrived shoeless because I was somehow unaware of that fact.) Tonight, my husband will be home late, and it’s entirely possible that my children will be eating frozen, gluten free fish sticks for dinner. I cringe just typing that. But for two weeks, I’ve been cooking real-food meals on a torn-up floor crowded with dehumidifiers and fans that have driven the temperature in my kitchen above 85 degrees. Today, I think, I need a break.Today, I am unapologetically modeling for my children the thing I tell them all the time: It doesn’t have to be perfect; you just have to do your best.

This narrative is getting tired-- I'm tired of it. I've been trying to wait it out, sure no one wants to read about it just as I don't want to write about it. I'm tired of answering questions about how I've been with words like "actually..." or "struggling" or "everything would be fine IF." I think most people are sincere when they ask. But I see their eyes cloud over when I answer. It's not what they wanted to hear. Maybe they're tired of it-- I wouldn't blame them. Maybe they feel helpless. I get that too. "Let me know if you need anything," they tell me. And I think I don't even know what to say.

These weeks have been heavy, haven't they? There are real, seemingly unsolvable, gut-wrenching problems in the world. Of course I know that this is not that. I'll tell you what I tell them: Everything is fine. Everyone is fine-- more than fine. See that gorgeous boy over there? He is thriving. He brings us joy every time we look at him. We have what we need and then some and we are so grateful. But I am not fine and the thing I need the most no one can give me.

I'm being dramatic, right? Seven sleepless months will do that to you, I suppose. I need that blessed baby to sleep. I need assurance that nothing else is wrong with him. I need patience and stamina to deal with the middle of the night standing, the swaying, the singing of the same tired choruses, the frustration when I put him down only for him to sit up crying, making me start all over, the desperation over my inability to fall asleep since I don't know how long it will be before he cries again.

I need more than that, too, I guess. I need prayer. I need, as Moses did, someone to hold up my arms. I'm feeling weak; my spirit and back and hips and wrists ache. There are a handful of hymns and praise choruses I have sung to Deacon from the beginning that have calmed him and me. But my heart is weary and the words feel empty. I can't bring my lips to utter them with any conviction lately; I sing Dave Matthews (#41, in case you're curious) instead. I halfheartedly hum "You Are My Sunshine" to this child whom I love with my whole heart.

I am tired of being needy, but thankful for all we've been given: For my in-laws who have doted on my daughters in my absence (perceived and actual), who made it okay for me to take the baby and join Daniel on his work trip to the beach where I still didn't sleep but where I wandered and fussed over only one child and put my toes in the sand and spent precious moments in my most favorite place with my favorite person. For the stranger who held my baby while I ate my dinner (yep, I handed him off to a stranger) at the beach, who acknowledged and embodied the sisterhood of the mothers of littles (much to Daniel's shock). For the text from a new friend to check in, the hand across the table of another who told me it's okay not to be okay, it's normal to feel the way I do; it will pass. For the doctor who asked earnestly if lack of sleep is really all that's going on (I really do believe it is, but was so touched by his concern), for my dearest friend who called and sung the words to the song of my heart back to me. I needed it all.

Because this is not all there is. I am more than the sleep-deprived shell I've been feeling like. These small acts of love help me to feel seen; they remind me I really am doing the best I can as a friend and wife and mother, even though it's not enough. I I need to hear that those who love me will forgive me my ample shortcomings of late, and that no one will be worse for wear when it's over (because really, truly, one day it will be over). I need to hear that the frustration is understandable; that it doesn't negate any of the tremendous joy that is also part of my every day.

I'm ready to recognize the girl in the mirror. I'm having trouble seeing past the baby that is always in her arms, the circles under her bloodshot eyes, the flatness in her voice. I know she is a caring daughter and sister and a generous friend. I know she is a selfless and loving mother who delights in her children. I know she loves her husband fiercely. And I pray that those around me can hold on just a little longer, since my actions don't match those things I know, and since my new friends haven't known me long enough to see me any other way.

My prayers, once so gentle and earnest, then pleading and urgent, now sound hollow. It seems I feel them bounce off the ceiling and shatter against the nursery floor where I kneel. And yet I know that not to be true. I know I am to be anxious for nothing, but by prayer and petition present my requests to God (Philippians 4:6). I know that when I ask anything according to his will, he hears me (1 John 5:14). I know he will withhold no good thing from those who love him (Psalm 84:11); I know I can trust him with my cares because he cares for me (1 Peter 5:7). Even in the exhausted moments when I feel forgotten, I know God will strengthen and help me; I know he will uphold me with his righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10). Months ago I promised our daughters chocolate cake for breakfast the first night Deacon slept through the night. Dutifully those girls have prayed each day for sleep for us all.

I go through the motions with my body while my spirit longs for rest. I cling to these things I know when my heart can't feel them. One day I will sleep, and those sweet girls will get their chocolate cake.

I turned 32 Sunday, two days after driving from our just-emptied rental near Nashville to an extended-stay hotel in Virginia Beach. My husband and kids were so sweet, making me breakfast and taking me to lunch at a bay-side café, after which we spent the afternoon counting washed-up horseshoe crabs and leaping dolphins. That night they indulged my months-long craving for hibachi and painstakingly picked out and decorated a double chocolate cake for dessert. Friends and family called or sent messages saying they hoped our transition was going well, that we were “getting settled,” and loving our new adventure.

In most cases, I didn’t have the heart to tell them none of those things are happening. My little family gave me the best day they could muster, and it really was great. There are definitely blessings evident in our midst, and others that are dangling in the distance.

But can I be real, friends? Pretty much not one part of this transition is “going well.”

I could bore you with details about the undercover cops in the lobby and the overwhelming odor of marijuana when we arrived at our hotel. But then you’d scratch your head at why our first instinct, upon discovering this, was to go ahead and unpack our bags. We’ve gotten so accustomed lately to simple things becoming complicated, things you’re supposed to take for granted being absent, that we just roll with it. Getting out of our lease in Tennessee has proven to require Herculean efforts, an exorbitant amount of money, and now, legal counsel. Acquiring a new midwife in Virginia Beach has thus far required Vanderbilt sending my records a grand total of three times and five re-schedulings of my first appointment. At nearly 22 weeks pregnant, this is not encouraging.

Emerie's September calendar

We’ve been living in a hotel for over a week so far, and we likely have 6 more nights to go. I say “likely” because here it is, Friday afternoon, and, due to ubiquitous "forces outside of our control," we’re not 100% sure whether we’re moving into a short-term rental on Sunday or whether we have to wait until next Thursday; we’re not yet certain if our mail is being forwarded to the right place. Daniel was without a phone for the last week; I finally got the cough and cold the rest of the family had in Tennessee; I could go on and on (but for your sake, I won’t). I don’t mean to complain, though I know that I am. I have been with my blessed children in our two-bedroom suite most of every day. Daniel leaves before they’re up, I feed them, we “get ready,” do school, then try to find a place to go for a few hours before I crash from sickness and exhaustion. They are doing remarkably well, but I’m tired of shushing them, tired of not having anyone to talk to all day, they are tired of always sharing their space, their limited toys, their bed. There have been nights Daniel didn’t return until 9:00 or 10:00 from his job that is very much wanted and very much a blessing but, at the moment, sucking the life out of him. We have a tiny portion of our stuff, and I like to think I’ve been resourceful with it, but it's all getting old.

Mirabella's ark craft has been a good reminder for us.

I had hoped to wait to write, to share only when things were settled, better, easier to navigate. But quite honestly, I don’t know when that’s going to be, and I guess that would be kind of disingenuous anyway.

All year I’ve had this book near me, until recently on my kitchen counter and now beside my rented bed: Choosing Joy. I bought the book because I desperately believe that you find what you seek and peace and joy are what I've been wanting to find. I believe that happiness and, ever much more importantly joy, are choices that we make and must not be tied to our circumstances.

But choosing where to focus my attention when the difficulties scream so much louder hasn’t been easy. I hate that my husband and I occupy the same space for less than two waking hours per day during the week, but until recently, we only saw each other on the weekends, so for this I will choose to be grateful. I hate living in a hotel, without any concrete idea of when certainty and security and stability will find us. But I will choose to be grateful for our ability to be together, for our health, and for God's provision, however day-to-day it feels. I hate that I wasn’t prepared to homeschool my daughter the way I’d always intended to be. But I will choose to be grateful that she is loving all of it so far. I will choose to be grateful for the extra time with her, and that I have thus far been able to convey all of this as a great adventure to her and her little sister. Even as the days tick by and there is more of this pregnancy behind me than before me, even as I still don’t know where we will live when we welcome our son, I will choose to be thankful for his apparent health and frequent movements that were just strong enough for Mirabella to feel them for the first time. I thank God for these reminders about what really matters, even as I long for stability and home. I will continue to seek the joy and the beauty in little snatches of every day. And I pray that we are deep in the throes of learning whatever it is we’re supposed to be learning so we can go ahead and move on.

"We can do no great things; only small things with great love." -- Mother Teresa

A friend of mine lived with an adorable Southern girl for a while whose signature phrase one summer was, “I can’t be bothered.” I thought it was perfect and adopted it. For years I could be heard saying I “couldn’t be bothered” with any number of things, worthy and less so. Now I’m working on perfecting the inverse— “You’re not bothering me” – and meaning it.

Maybe it’s leftover from years of squeezing driving and working and cooking and mothering all into too-short days or maybe it’s a byproduct of my personality, but I like my plans. Even as a stay-at-home mom and even on days when I didn’t really have a particular place I had to be, I have struggled to remind myself of this and not rush my children. Being home with them in a new place has taught me loads about myself and life and being a mother, and this concept is not the least of it.

Some structure is necessary, but we must be careful to count the cost of too much rigor. What do we lose when we always stick to the plan? And what might we gain if we looked away?

It occurred to me that my irritation at plans gone awry, schedules disrupted, was terribly selfish.

It was also about this time I realized I had always thought that, if I had just had the opportunity to stay home, I would be so much more useful to others. All those groups at church I hadn’t had time for—I’d finally have the time! All those people I knew I could help if only I had a spare moment—now I could! And that’s not how it went down. I was preoccupied with adjustment, with getting my family settled, with figuring out how to operate in my new world, and it seemed at the end of most days, it was all I could do to accomplish my basic tasks.

This inability to help others started to seem like less a necessary result of my station in life and more a product of my unwillingness to look up. It wasn’t a lack of time or other resources. Yes, energy is in short supply these last few months. Yes, we have some changes on our plate. But so does everyone. I just needed to be willing.

I prayed that I might start to see disruptions as opportunities, and that I might seek out more opportunities. I didn’t have to wait long.

"Every interruption of the day is a manifestation of Christ. There are no interruptions in a day. There are only manifestations of Christ.” -- Ann Voskamp

Choosing to put my agenda aside and saying yes has meant getting to see a high school friend from Maryland I hadn’t seen in years in my Tennessee living room. It meant an invitation at 7:00 AM, a harried trip to the grocery store, and spending the morning on the couch of a friend who had unexpectedly lost her dad just so she could talk through it and I could offer her the frozen (but seriously incredible) meat sauce my husband had made the week prior. It meant hosting our friends for a night of laughter that healed parts of my soul I didn’t know were hurting. Even though my floor was dirty and I was tired.

Recent interruptions have included long phone calls I didn’t know I needed. Skipping the grocery store and feeding my children hastily-named “banana dogs” (peanut butter and bananas on hot dog rolls) so my daughter could have a leisurely day at the pool with a friend she may not get to see again. It meant finally making time to be a good neighbor. Early morning blueberry picking and delighted squeals of my daughters. It meant piles of abandoned laundry so we could make giant bubbles in the backyard. It meant letting my children stay up until 10:00 so their Daddy could be with them to sing a half-birthday song and blow out candles. It meant watching a friend's children at the last minute, as so many have done for me; a perfect afternoon at the county fair instead of home packing up closets and mulling our impending move. It meant foregoing my quiet time to myself to help my husband with a work project or look him in the eye. It’s meant editing resumes, reading extra stories, giving extra hugs and grace and lying in the bed to hold my five-year-old for five more minutes.

These acts are so small; sometimes my life feels very small. And this shift comes at a time when my stress is high and my patience is low. I’m pregnant and worried about details of the coming days that I can’t hurry up, single parenting during the week while Daniel starts his new job; my children are growing tired of spending all day every day with each other, and I’m just so very, very tired. Sometimes even these small things have been a struggle, friends. But I have been so grateful for these “disruptions” and the lessons they offer, sometimes lovely, sometimes stinging, but always needed. I find my strength is renewed in this pouring out, even if I thought I had nothing there to begin with. This is not an argument for always saying yes. I know there are a lot of people-- women in particular-- who struggle to set healthy boundaries for themselves and their families and their time. But that’s not me. After years of being overcommitted, my default answer has been to say no, to protect my family from drains on our time. And while I still believe that instinct is necessary and good, I’m afraid I've been missing out on the enormous blessing it is to bless others, even when we think we don’t have enough ourselves. When I first moved to Tennessee I found myself volunteering on not one but two hospitality committees. I think I joked to Daniel that God was laughing at me, the career woman, now home and the type of person who would sign up for such a thing. Recently I read a blog post by Ann Voskamp that reshaped my thinking on the importance of these “small things:”

“Our actual theology is best expressed in our actual hospitality…Hospitality isn’t for the good housekeepers … hospitality is meant to shape our churches and politics, our work and our schools, our homes and our faith and our schedules and our meals and our lives.”

I can be hospitable even when my house is a mess, even when the laundry is piled up, even when I haven’t been to the store or put on my makeup, even when I don’t have my own stuff together.

“Hospitality is Life with no Gates. Hospitality means if there is room in the heart, there is always room in the house.” -- Ann Voskamp

My dad used to describe himself as a jack of all trades, master of none, and I could rightly say it about me. I have been exposed to a little bit of this and that. I have surface-level knowledge on a variety of things and hold opinions on a range of issues I have varying degrees of knowledge on. But, despite the tone I may sometimes convey here and in person, I know a lot about very little. When I left my full-time job, it occurred to me it had become more than that. It was a career. I had cultivated expertise—people sought my advice on things because I was the resident “expert.” This flattered me a little, I suppose, but I hadn’t guessed how much I’d miss it. Now I am an expert at exactly nothing. Still, there are a handful of issues near to my heart, on the tip of my tongue. I think many of us could probably narrow our passions down to identify The One Thing: The thing you do so well that, when you see it done poorly, it makes your blood boil. The thing you focus on at the expense of others. The thing you feel confident enough about to judge others on. If I’m honest, my One Thing is probably food. Over the course of the last three or four years, I have made a series of changes—tiny steps—toward a real-food diet for our family. Some people probably think I receive royalties every time someone downloads the documentary, “Food, Inc.” I try hard not to let the quest for real food interfere with really living—there are absolutely exceptions and compromises. But I have read and watched and researched and learned things I can’t unknow, and so I devote considerable time and a larger chunk of our weekly budget than I am comfortable with seeking, buying and cooking real food from scratch. This commitment frequently runs counter to convenience and modern life, which annoys me. It occurs to me that sometimes we are the weird family. But I’ve become okay with it, because I truly believe it’s the better way to be. Sounds virtuous, right? If I left it at that, it would be. But I don’t. On a weekly basis I find myself caring for other people’s children, feeding them snacks and lunches packed from home. And I have been appalled-- loudly, and to anyone who would listen-- about what some people are feeding their precious babies. I may express frustration about loved ones who just can’t or won’t or don’t feel compelled to make changes I know would radically improve their lives. I judge strangers and friends, aloud and internally, organic green smoothie in hand, from my comfortable perch of being right and good.

And it’s wrong. I know fellow mothers whose One Thing might be extended breastfeeding, back sleeping, staying home with the kids, attachment parenting, eradicating circumcision, car seat safety, methods of discipline, learning styles, schooling (or unschooling), natural home birth, and a host of other issues. And, if we let ourselves go there, I could probably get into it with just about every one of my friends. I fought every day and through many nights to nurse my second child for one year. My kids never slept on their backs or in my bed, I worked full-time for the first four years I was a mother; I wore them in a carrier, but would not consider myself an attachment parenting devotee. I’m on the fence about circumcision; as long as kids are in car seats I can’t manage to get passionate about the type or dither about its fastening. We do not spank our children, and if you weathered a meltdown at our house, you might click your tongue about how we dealt with it. We are reluctantly sending our oldest to public kindergarten next year, and while I aspire toward a natural birth if blessed with another opportunity, I can never imagine doing it at home. And you know what? All of that is okay. And it’s okay for you to disagree with me. And it’s okay for you to lovingly feed your child whatever it is you’re feeding him, and it’s NOT okay for me to judge your character because of it. A quick glance at my Facebook newsfeed tells me this phenomenon is not limited to motherhood or lifestyle choices. Maybe your One Thing is the Second Amendment, maybe it’s abortion, maybe it’s human trafficking. Maybe it’s theology or social justice or personal finances. Maybe it’s federal spending or welfare. You know what? With all due respect, your one thing is just that—yours. It’s probably very worthy, and there is likely a reason it gets more of your attention than the other issues you may also be passionate about. But that doesn’t mean it falls in the same priority order in others’ lives, and that doesn’t mean they are wrong, and it doesn’t mean you’re better or smarter for choosing that One Thing. I’d like to think the reason I judge others about food is because it’s just that important. But I don’t think that’s it. I think I judge them because maybe that’s the one thing I feel like I’m doing well. We all harbor insecurities—since I’ve become a mother mine have multiplied. There are so many areas I could be giving more attention, so many opportunities to improve. So if there’s one area I can feel good about, I’m going to embrace it, even if it means putting others down to make myself feel better. But instead of doing that, what if I recognized the One Thing in others and, agree or disagree, listened and tried to learn from it? Maybe if more of us tried to do that, there would be fewer angry Facebook rants, fewer verbal standoffs. Maybe we’d realize most of us are just doing the best we can, and that there is less space between us than we think.

Before our trip we visited our local library, leaving with 26 items, some of which are currently overdue (I am on my way to becoming either the most hated or the most loved library patron in three states now). One of our selections was Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss. That Dr. Seuss gets me every time! I have yelled reading The Lorax, cried reading Oh, The Places You'll Go, and now been shamed while reading this one.A sample: "And suppose that you lived in that forest in France, where the average young person just hasn't a chance to escape from the perilous pants-eating plants! But your pants are safe! You're a fortunate guy. And you ought to be shouting, 'How lucky am I?'"Alas, that's not what I was shouting over the course of the last week. But since I write from the other side of my epiphany, I will relay the story as if I had, italicizing the reconsidered parts. (Watch out, it's long.)

Have you ever noticed how many people are pushing balance? Balance your diet, your budget, your work versus your life, your alone time versus time with your kids, your schedule so you can exercise, shop smart, keep the romance in your marriage, keep your home clean, your life on track, your sanity. We are told that the key to achieving all these things-- at the same time, no less-- is supposed to be balance. So, at the risk of airing my dirty laundry (I wouldn't have any if I had found this elusive balance), what exactly is balance, and how am I supposed to find it? I have spent my life, and the last four years I've been a mother in particular, searching for (but more often lamenting my lack of ability to find) balance. I failed. Over and over and over again. I started to prickle every time I even heard the word. And then, I decided to reject it. I have determined I don't believe in balance. I said this recently to Daniel, just venting, not expecting a debate. He asked me to explain. Here's the thing: If I am one place, I am not another. And I mean that physically, mentally, and any other way you'd like to approach it. There is no getting around it. If I am at work, I am not with my kids. If I am with my kids, I am not at work, and therefore, not making money. If I nurture my marriage the way it needs, I am sacrificing some time with my children. If I spend all my time with my kids, I am neglecting myself and my marriage. I can't work AND be home AND spend quality, creative time with my kids AND make everything from scratch AND spend the time it takes to shop thoughtfully, healthfully and sustainably AND keep my house clean and organized AND be a meaningful member of my church AND tend to friendships, family members and ministries AND nurture my marriage AND write and exercise and read and do the things I need to keep myself healthy. I CAN'T*. The * is the key here. * = Not all at the same time. So what does this mean? Logistically, probably nothing different. But mentally, it's huge. It means acknowledging choices-- owning them-- and then not feeling guilty about the repercussions. It means I can't always make it to my small group, because doing so when my husband is away means sacrificing that time with my children when I've already been at the office all day, foregoing their peaceful bedtime and full night's sleep, and giving up any hope of a few quiet moments to myself. But I am choosing to be okay with that.It means going on dates and overnights with my husband, even though it results in additional precious moments spent away from my children. Because I believe the overall benefit is greater than the in-the-moment sacrifice. It means working toward a plan to work differently, to work less, even though it means acknowledging that I might not have a future in this career field. It might not be waiting for me when I come back. But I am choosing to be okay with that.It means reallocating our budget to dedicate more resources to food and a lifestyle that will keep our family healthy. It means abandoning coupons and not always being able to be frugal. And I am choosing to be okay with that.Really, it means making a choice, this thing over that at this time. Daniel listened, head cocked to the side, and said, "I see what you're saying, but I disagree. I look at life over a week, or a month, or a year and determine whether it was balanced." That may work for him, but I can't figure out how to implement that in the middle of my days. Ironically, I don't have the time. Instead, I will continue to see it all as making choices. Sometimes I will get it wrong, but I will try to be more forgiving when I do. I will try to take the advice I gave Mirabella the other day, when her disobedience had an unintended consequence. I told her, "We all make mistakes. And when we do, we say we're sorry, we try to see what we can learn for next time, and then we move on."

Recently, upon reading a presentation on corporate retention strategies broken down by generation, I IM'd my co-worker, "I don't even know what generation I'm in." "X'er," she replied, too soon. She is five years my junior. A remarkably accomplished, poised, insightful and wildly talented 25, but still, 25. Indignant, I retreated to Wikipedia. It seems the dates of Generation X are in question, but many accounts put its end around 1980-82. So it is fair to say I'm in. At first blush, I don't necessarily identify, from a generational perspective, with people 20 years ahead of me. But then I said to my co-worker, "I didn't get my first cell phone until college. I had email at the end of high school, but didn't use the Internet much otherwise." I asked her if she could remember a time before instant communication. She couldn't. I work in a technologically advanced community. It's not that I am ignorant of technological advances in communication. But too often I hear myself, in a voice that sounds much older than my own, railing against constant contact. I am on Facebook, and though I can appreciate its benefits, I can't bear the thought of reading one more inane post detailing someone's housecleaning to-do list or trip to Applebee's. (I know, I have a navel-gazing blog. I get it; it's ironic). I have, for that reason, avoided Twitter. I don't need to know that level of detail or frequency about anyone I know, let alone celebrities or politicians I don't know. My family and friends rib me about never having my phone on my person. It's a real argument Daniel and I have had repeatedly. It makes him anxious to know that I have the kids with me, sometimes hundreds of miles away from him, and am often unreachable. What if something happens, he reasons, and I understand his point. But I prickle at the idea that I am to be accessible to anyone who wants to get me at any time just because it's become normal. I want to live my life, look around, and not just long enough to take a photo to post online. I don't want my kids to remember their mommy as always having her head down, thumbs flying. Daniel recently received an iPad, and Mirabella occasionally plays games on it. It's not that I think the games are bad. I know many are educational. But she is four. I see infinitely more value in her actually coloring than in coloring on an iPad. I want her to run around, not manipulate an avatar on a screen. I want to encourage her love for board games and wooden puzzles, for pages she can turn and touch and smell. I do not shun technology. My preferred method of communication is e-mail. I don't really find that odd, because I'm a writer anyway, and also because I have little time when I am not driving or at work when I am able to focus on one thing in a quiet location. But I do not text much and can't understand conducting long conversations via text. Though clearly I can see the appeal of chronicling a life in some form online, for me, it only goes so far. In the last three weeks alone, I have learned of three engagements on Facebook. One was a co-worker, but I am in one of the other weddings, and the third is for a close family member. I knew they were coming, but I guess I was looking forward to the calls, the excitement, the stories. Does it make me old-fashioned? Maybe I just want to feel important-- that I matter enough that friends would think to share their news specifically with me? It's selfish, I guess, and maybe that's all it is. But I can't shake it. Yesterday I needed to reach a (young) co-worker who sits in a different location and I emailed her. Repeatedly. Sheepishly, I turned to IM. It occurs to me that you have to change to grow. I know I need to speak to others in their language-- and in their preferred mode of communication-- if I want to get through to them. Am I running the risk of falling behind? Am I already there? And am I doing my kids a disservice by tempering the electronics? Or maybe my gut is right-- though there will be plenty of time for them to look at screens as they grow-- that the time and space to run and play is what's really threatened.

Late last year I met a new friend. She is a model. Not like "pretty enough to be a model," an actual model. She is stunning, but that's not all she is. I am finding that she is also a kind and generous and thoughtful woman of faith, it's just not the first thing you see. So why am I telling you all this? To tell you that since meeting her, I've realized I have a problem. Though my confidence is certainly not what it used to be, I manage to make it through most days without giving my appearance too much thought. And on many days, I have learned to be content with what we have and where we are. We are actively paying down the debt we stupidly acquired and living on a budget. Though there are splurges, day-to-day, we live like people who make a lot less than we do, out of necessity. We are not extreme couponers, and some of the super frugal bloggers I've seen would scoff at our budget. But we are driven to correct these mistakes now while living a life that has some comforts so we are motivated to stay on track and move closer to the life we want to be living. Mostly I am proud of how far we've come, and I can focus on our goals instead of the challenges.

But hanging with a gorgeous and wealthy new friend (who happens to be younger than I am) has challenged me. I am not proud of it. I am not writing this so friends will say, "Don't be silly, you are (fill in the blank)." I am writing it because it makes me angry. I am embarrassed that my self worth apparently hinges on so little, and at the larger issues this friendship has forced me to address.

Over the last year or so, as I've often written here, Daniel and I have tried to be much more purposeful about a lot of things. We now try to be more thoughtful about what we bring home in the first place, what we hold on to, and what we give away. I continue to take steps toward a healthier, natural lifestyle for our family. We have made strides, including joining a CSA, having our milk delivered from a local farm, going organic in certain items, moving away from white grains and cooking from scratch as much as possible, but sometimes I feel like we still have so far to go.

I read blogs and books from women who seem superhuman. They eat an all "real food" diet, calmly parent brilliant little kids, whom they homeschool, they are active in church and other ministries, and run successful businesses (from home), all while wearing cute, dangly earrings and keeping their homes clean and clutter free. I know this is isn't really true, at least I think it isn't. But it seems that way. And I'm sure that, for most of them, their intent is not to make anyone feel bad. On the contrary, they are probably trying to teach, to inspire, to share. I know we're all more excited to share our successes than our failures. I know we all focus on certain things at the exclusion of others. But, maaaan.

Sometimes I need to take a break from reading that stuff because I fall into comparing. If you are one of those women, and you are my Facebook friend, don't get your feelings hurt if I occasionally block your status updates. I don't bake my own bread and sometimes my kids eat macaroni and cheese out of a box. Sometimes our eggs aren't cage free because our budget took a hit this week and I needed to shop at Aldi and they do not concern themselves with such things, and I just couldn't bear the thought of making one. more. stop. Most of the time, I just don't measure up.

The Rotary Fountain in Charleston, SC

An acquaintance whose daughter is Mirabella's age asked me where she's going to school next year. Their daughter is already in her second year of preschool and will start kindergarten a year early, in the fall. Our daughter is four and I don't know what we're going to do about preschool, let alone kindergarten. We have thus far followed the "better late than early" mindset and tried to give her learning opportunities at home and social opportunities elsewhere. Forget that she can write her name and recognize and write her letters and knows their sounds and is overall rather sophisticated for her age, when someone asks, as they often do, where she goes to school, I don't have an answer and haven't been researching much or going on tours either. We no longer own our own home, and I don't know when we will. I don't know where we are going to settle down or, maybe more importantly, when. So comparing myself to others who have all this figured out makes me feel small, less than, not as good. And I think there is something inherent in becoming a mother that gives us the tendency to feel that way anyway.

But then I get around other people. Maybe they are more mainstream than me or just more permissive parents than we are, but in any event we are not the same. They might be people whose kids base their Christmas lists off TV commercials, people whose idea of cooking is assembling prepared foods, or whose idea of news is a steady diet of FoxNews. I get around them and I feel better. "My kids don't watch commercials," I said in a conversation with a co-worker recently, which is true. We "killed" our TV in July, and while we do get a few channels, our girls' TV diet is limited to a few episodes on Netflix here and there. There's not really a way to say, "we don't eat that" or "we don't watch that" or "the kids aren't allowed to see that" that doesn't make me sound "other" and, possibly, like I feel like I'm better than. And, while I'm being honest, sometimes, for just a second, comparing does make me feel better than. And that's ugly.

At a training session for our church's Christmas outreach event, we talked about how to build relationships with the people we would be ministering to, people who were, in many cases "other" from us. Handouts are one thing, but relationships are harder. Our pastor warned us to avoid comparison, calling it the "killer of compassion." I felt a twinge. When I compare, I am susceptible to pity (on myself or the other person), self-righteousness, and envy. All of which cause me to focus on ME. My discomfort with my new friend, or the supermoms I admire, or the less fortunate I meet has nothing to do with them. It's all about me feeling insecure in my skin, in my role, in my position. My new friend doesn't know it, but meeting her has forced me to face something I didn't even realize was plaguing me. If I compare myself to you, then I can't love you; if I can't love you, then I've failed.

About Me

Christina | Virginia BeachPsuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.